


One-Nil

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Football, Gen, Inspiration from episode s01e05, Some mild but canon-typical language, football rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 14:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Gene is not often wrong, but even he has to admit that with this wager, Sam got him bang to rights. But really. This is cruel and unusual punishment.





	One-Nil

Sam practically skips into his office and leans against the filing cabinet, arms crossed. He looks entirely too pleased with himself for a Monday morning.

“I've decided what I want as my prize.”

Gene groans. He had, unfortunately, squarely lost a bet on last week's case, to a level even he couldn't talk his way out of. And to the victor go the spoils. “Go on then. What fairy dust wishes can I grant you this damned and drizzly day.” He'll probably have to stop calling Annie a bird for a week. Or bow to Sam's policing methods, won't that be a drag. It'll take everyone three times as long to get to the answer he could have told them from the start.

“Football.”

“Football.”

“More to the point,” Sam's eyes sparkle with mischief, and Gene manfully resists the urge to punch him in one of them, “the United City game this Saturday. You're gonna take me, and we're gonna watch from the United side.”

It's like the bottom has fallen out of the day. The man can't be serious. There are some things it's fine to joke about – murder, mayhem, even his wife – but football allegiances are not one of them. “No.”

Sam walks over and leans on Gene's desk, two palms flat on the files and oak. It makes him impossible to ignore, suddenly looming, especially as one hand covers the very report Gene had been pretending to read while he waited for his hangover headache to subside. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Then you take the forfeit.”

“Yes, I take the bloody forfeit!”

“I look forward to seeing Ginny Hunt, though I do wonder where you'll find a dress long enough.”

Gene splutters. “I- I can't- I won't-”. He takes a deep breath, and pushes to his feet. “Listen here, sunshine,” he growls, grabbing Sam by the front of the shirt. There's barely enough to grab, the twat wears them so tight, and he twists his lips, shaking his hold when Sam just grins at him. He should be properly intimidated now. He must be going too soft on him. “I don't want to know what goes on in that twisted little space you call a brain, but I will not be bloody _cross-dressing-_” another shake, for emphasis- “for anything.” He lets him go with a last shove, matter closed.

“The whole point is the forfeit's worse than the prize.” Sam looks remarkably unconcerned about the whole thing. He's even bloody picking at his fingernails, the tosser. “They're selling tickets at the grounds tonight. I like goal-end, if you can get them.”

–

It continues throughout the week. He gets the tickets, grudgingly, and hands them over as soon as possible, because merely having them in his wallet feels like he's polluting his picture of Raquel Welch. 

“I'm looking forward to it, Guv.”

“You could take someone who wants to go,” he tries. The wheedling, snivelling, convincing route has never been one for him, but Sam seems to like all the talky talky stuff; maybe he'll take it on board better than a thump to the stomach. And anything is worth a try, when it's City at stake. “More fun that way. Chris. Or Ray.”

“When have you _ever_ known me want to do something with Ray?”

He shakes his head, and walks off before Gene can answer. Or suggest he take Annie instead. 

–

Saturday both drags its heels and comes around entirely too quickly. Gene could have quite happily lived a full and pleasant life putting this Saturday off until his deathbed, but no can do. For some reason, the universe doesn't always listen to him. Hard to put the boot in on an entire planetary system, but if he found a way to do it, this is where he'd take his shot. Anything to get him out of today.

He tugs at the monstrosity around his neck. It must be trying to strangle him. United works in mysterious ways, maybe this is an undercover plot to take out City fans. He should put someone on that. Better yet, end this whole farce and put himself on the case.

“If you don't stop yanking at that scarf I'm gonna tie it in a knot.”

Gene gives Sam his best murderous glare. It led a suspect to wet themselves once, but Sam just raises an eyebrow. 

“I don't know why I agreed to this.”

“You don't have a choice.” 

“It is a cruel and unusual punishment.”

Sam leans close, tweaking the end of the red United scarf he'd draped around Gene like it's a girl's pigtail. “That's the point.”

“Just you wait, Tyler. I'll win the next bet and make you wish you'd never been born.”

The crowds are getting thicker as they walk towards the stadium, and all around them red and blue amass. He keeps his head down; the last thing he needs is someone he knows to see him decked out in the devil's colour, his DI grinning his head off like a loon, knocking their elbows together like it's a fun day out at the park. At least it doesn’t look like there's any trouble brewing, but as they get closer to the entrances the blue starts to stream away to the other side, and it makes Gene uncharacteristically jumpy. There's just too much red.

“Bugger this.” He stops dead, a mini island in a sea of supporters, and drops the scarf in a heap at his feet. “Not happening.”

Sam stops and stares at him. “It is happening.” He picks the scarf up before it can get trampled, but he must have gleaned something in the way of self-preservation instincts over the last year, because he doesn’t attempt to give it back to Gene. Just stands there with it draped over his hands, like a schoolboy with a dead snake. 

“I am your DCI. If I say something's not happening-” he pauses for effect, leaning in slightly- “it's not happening.”

Sam shrugs, still uncowed. “Fine. But I'll tell everyone you welched on a bet.”

“Welched?” Honestly, sometimes he needs a god-dammed dictionary with this man.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Pansied out,” he translates, and Gene hates himself for it, but he can't let that get around CID. He stiffens as Sam loops the scarf over his shoulders once more. “Just try not to cheer if City score,” Sam advises, with a self-satisfied smirk. “We don't need a riot.”

–

It's as tough as he'd thought it would be, watching the match from the wrong end. He feels cut-off from the atmosphere, worse than watching at home, or reading about it in the papers – alone despite the mass of humanity on all sides. He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall of blue across the pitch like it's the first glimpse of land after a long sea journey. If he was there, instead of here, this would be one of the best Saturdays in a long while.

The crowd around him groans; a near miss at goal for United, and Gene grins. Sam flicks his gaze across, catching him in the act, and smiles in response with a little shake of his head. The ball careens back to the United strikers though, a clever bit of footwork there, Gene admits to himself, City defenders should be better than that, and suddenly United are up with another chance.

All around him the crowd waits, expectant, hushed with bated breath. Gene can't watch.

He looks sideways instead, to where Sam has one hand clutched in his short hair. His face is open, and happy, and he looks younger than normal. Didn't he say he used to come to the football with his dad? There's something of a boy about him now, and -

The roar is deafening. Gene swivels back to the game, but that is definitely a ball in the back of the net – as if he needed confirmation given the celebrations breaking out around him. He groans, but it's inaudible with all the cheering. Sam is shouting and grinning, bouncing on his toes and jostling him, before he slings an arm around Gene's shoulders. It could feel condescending, but it makes him feel included. 

He digs out his flask for a fortifying swig, and after a quick pause, offers it to Sam. Sam toasts him with it before knocking back a good swallow of his own, making his breath is hot and whiskey-tinged when he leans in to sing into his ear, “One-nil!”

–

They head to the pub afterwards, like most of-age spectators, Gene stuffing the damned scarf in a bin as soon as they clear the stadium. Sam buys him a commiseration pint while drinking his own celebratory one, laughing and joking with Nelson, and Gene thinks – well. He's never going to be pleased about a City loss. That's just a fact. But seeing Sam Tyler – crazy, tiresome, stick-in-the-mud DI Tyler – loosen up and have a little fun? 

He downs his drink, and gestures to Sam for another, pleased to see him nod to Nelson in agreement. A fresh pint is slid across the bar to him, and added to Sam's tab.

Okay. Just once. He'll let him have this.

**Author's Note:**

> A football fic written by someone with no interest in or knowledge of the game... sorry. Hope there wasn't anything too wrong!


End file.
